there's so much blood
by pippa swan
Summary: Do things normally work out as planned? Nope, not when it comes to her life.


She doesn't know how it happened.

The last thing she remembers is having her crossbow out.

Well. Fuck. Look how much that did.

Now she finds herself in a windowless room, laying on a table. And the best part is?

Her clothes seem to have gone missing.

"Sherlock, you forgot to clean your weapon," a woman states as she passes a man stripped of his shirt and sitting on the floor like a child. "And put a damn shirt on, will you." It wasn't a question. Once it's out of her mouth and he actually processes it, he gets up from the floor and stumbles around for a clean shirt.

"Really, Watson," he says, bending over to fetch a shirt from one of the packs, smelling it to make sure it had a decent scent, "you've got to see what I found last night."

Joan quirks a brow just as she stirs her spoon around in her cup of tea. "Don't tell me you were up all last night." It was becoming sort of a thing for Holmes - running on little to know sleep and drinking gallons of coffee.

He pauses and doesn't answer her whilst sliding his shirt on. "I couldn't sleep," he tells her with a shrug of his shoulders. "But, come on, look what I found. Looks like those newbies - and no, don't give me that look, they know nothing about hunting. It's quite a surprise they haven't managed to get killed yet-" and yes, that is a 'you don't listen to me, I won't make you coffee' he's giving her, "anyway, as I was saying, those newbies from last week are trying to hunt down that herd we saw last night at that one club. And I think we should get to them before they do - so they don't get themselves skinned, of course."

Joan still has that single eyebrow quirked, trying to catch up on what he had told her. And when she finally did, she snorted, walking closer to photographs of these so called 'newbie' hunters. She has to admit …. they are rather fresh and she's sure they wouldn't be able to handle more than one or two suckers at a time.

"You expect us to go after a herd with little to know information on who they are or where they hide themselves?" she can't help but ask the question, looking from the photographs and to Holmes with that quirked eyebrow again. "You do know that's basically like suicide, right?"

A smile is what she got from him.

One damn smile.

It shouldn't mean anything, not really, but seeing that kind of smile on him …. It makes on edge.

"Sherlock, you can't be serious." She frowns at him, narrowing her eyes a little as she moves away from the photographs and towards the table. "We'll be lucky if we get out with our skin still attached." She sets down her tea and turns around, eying him before letting out a deep sigh.

"I knew you'd see it my way, dear Watson."

With a scowl, she crosses her arms, leaning against the wooden table. "You know what? Fine. Let's just waltz right in there with signs announcing we're looking to burn them alive - and no, don't laugh, I know they're dead."

And honestly? That's how she gets herself in trouble.

It does not go as planned. Not at all. In fact, she'd rather get soup in her eyes rather than sneaking around in hallways with her crossbow.

They had waltzed in just like planned and at first they didn't notice the two hunters. Unfortunately, luck had not been on their side and they soon found themselves split up, trying to shoot down as many as possible before their hides were gone.

"Watson," came a voice from the walkie talkie snug on her hip. "Watson. Seriously, Watson, pick up."

Nope. Not sounding breathless, not sounding panicked. Nope, she isn't going to pick up.

"Watson, Watson, Watson, Watson, Wa-"

"What?"

"I'm outside."

She quickly whips around the corner, her crossbow out in front of her. There's nothing about hallway though, and she moves her shoulders to get the damn hair exstentians away from her face.

"Wats-"

"Yes, Holmes, I've heard you the last twenty times. Now tell me, what the hell are you doing outside?"

It's a hard thing, holding back from strangling the man. And sometimes she had to will herself not to do it. This was clearly one of those times.

"Well Watson, if you have had been listening in the car earlier, you would know there's three different exit points on the first floor, two on the second. Now, where are you and perhaps I'll be as kind to make sure you get out of their before I blow this establishment up."

Damn him. He has a point, she hadn't been listening to him drone on and on about making sure to be safe on these hunts. She knew that already.

"Yeah, okay," she licks her lips and runs down the hall, stopping when it split into two. "Well, it would help of these halls weren't as dark as shit."

"You do know shit isn-"

"Sherlock, shut up and let me focus."

"… Right."

Focusing is easier now that Holmes had the decency to shut his trap, and now she can see a sign down the right hall, pointing to an exit.

"Hullelujah," she mumbles to herself before she took off in that direction.

Unfortunately, things don't go as planned. And isn't that her life?

She wakes up cold with a thin sheet covering her body. Her mind is a big thing of fog at the moment and all she can do is turn her head slowly as to not get sick.

Everything's white - the walls, the cabinets - and there aren't any windows.

Fuck, Joan thinks to herself as she clutches the sheet to her body and sits up, blinking a few times in order to actually see clearly.

Seriously. Whoever thought that white was a great color for everything needs to be kicked in the balls. It's blinding, the sheer brightness of it, but as her eyes begin to focus more, she notices she's on a metal table.

Then Joan feels it, feels how cold she is, feels the pain in the side of her neck.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Damn.

She's doomed.

Oh god, she has to be dreaming or maybe someone spiked the drink she had.

Or, damn it, something other than this.

"Fucking shit damn," she spoke loudly, wincing once she heard how loud it echoed in the room.

No wonder everything was hurting - her eyes are able to see more vividly now and she can smell medicine. It smells like a hospital and somehow that's not such a comfort now.

Holmes is going to have a shit fest. That is, if he doesn't kill her first.

Apparently she's been gone for a week.

She kind of sort of expected longer. It sure as hell felt longer.

And now Sherlock won't stop asking her where she's been.

"Watson," he says, jerking her out of her own mind, "you don't look very well."

"No shit," she snaps, standing up from the table, "you wouldn't look very well either if you had to spend a week at your parent's house." She doesn't exactly know what she said and now Sherlock resembles a kicked puppy. "Okay, I'm sorry, that was out of line. I'm just tired, that's all."

With that, she goes upstairs, her movements tight and jerky.

After she walks into the bathroom, she locks the door behind her and looks in the mirror, scowling once she realizes that there isn't a reflection.

Damn it. Again.

She can say that over and over for the rest of her life and it still won't describe how much shit she's in.

And she's in a lot of shit. A lot.

"C'mon Joan, get your act together, girl," she muttered, turning on the tap to rinse her face. It didn't do any good though; she's still feeling like a stone wall slapped her in the face.

Her stomach hurts. Like, really hurts. It burns, really, and she tries not to pay attention to that.

The headache is getting worse. And once that gets worse, the aching pains in her stomach get worse.

Licking her lips, she takes a deep breath (though she doesn't really need to, you know, breathe anymore) and goes downstairs.

"Hey, I'm gonna go get some air, I'll be back," she tells him whilst shrugging her coat on.

Holmes doesn't even look up from his research as he says, "Yeah, okay. Be careful."

And, without further hesitation on her part, Joan took her keys and left, breathing in the chilly air before setting off down the sidewalk, not quite knowing where she's headed.

Of course, it's her stomach who decides her destination.

She's fucked.

Undeniably fucked.

There's a sea of blood beneath her, some of that sea smeared on her.

It's on her chest, on her face, on her hands, in her hair.

And now she's shaking, shocked when she's realized what she's done.

The young woman she attacked had long brunette hair and a pretty face, just the face that lured creatures like her.

Before Joan leaves the scene, she hides the woman's body behind a trashcan and takes her jacket.

Hey, it's a rather lovely and expensive looking jacket.

She climbs to the bathroom window when she gets back, and she washes herself, getting rid of the blood in the bathtub before climbing back out of the window to enter the house like a normal human being - well, she's not exactly human, but at least the thought makes her chuckle.

"How was your walk?" It's Holmes and he's still hunched over his research, just like when she left him nearly an hour ago.

"It was … good," she replies, trying to sound like she means it. "Oh! and I bought a jacket."

"Really?" Holmes looked at the watch around his wrist, then looked up at her from the chair. "Who would be open at 2:00 in the morning?"

Ah. That's right.

"I know people," is all she said before shrugging her original jacket off and hanging it up. "I think I'm gonna turn in. Make sure there's coffee in the morning, if you drink it all." And with that, she went upstairs to her room, hanging up the coat in her closet.

Well. She's not tired and she doesn't think she will ever be tired again - or is that how it works? She doesn't know, hunters don't usually ask biters about their sleeping habits.

Still, she toes off her heels, gets undressed, then just climbs into her bed and under the covers. And, despite not being able to get warm, she tucks the covers around her petite body, curling in on herself before finally closing her eyes.

She doesn't get much peace that night. She does, however, get an hour or two of sleep - which honestly surprises her, originally thinking biters weren't able to sleep.

When she wakes, it's to pain. Burning pain, unlike the burning in her stomach or head the night before. It's like she's actually on fire and it makes her spring from the bed and seek out the corner closest to her closet, where the sunlight doesn't touch when it streams through the curtains on the windows.

Well, she should have expected that. She just didn't expect it to hurt that much.

…. and no, she doesn't feel a pang of guilt for all those times she forced a biter in the sun. Nope, not at all.

She sets up a routine for the rest of the next month and no one suspects a thing.

Well, she actually suspects Holmes may know, but that's only because she refuses to come out during the day.

Fortunately he hasn't tried to kill her yet.

Though, one day he tried to pull her outside during the day and she was not having any of that.

Her reaction is a little scary.

A lot scary, actually.

She actually pushes him up against the wall, lifting him off the ground.

"W-Watson …"

That's when she lets him go and steps back, her eyes wide and her mouth agape.

"Oh god … I'm sorry."

Ever since then, she usually keeps to herself in her room, even when it's dark outside.

Joan's actually in the middle of trying to relieve her boredom when Holmes walks in. Just walks in without an invitation.

:"Watson, we need to talk," he says, shutting the door behind him. And that's when Joan knows that maybe this will be one of those serious talks that they have once in a while - usually before a trip to rip off some biter heads. "What's going on?"

"God, Sherlock!" She stands up, an almost fed up look on her face. "I could have been getting changed for all you know!"

"The herd is killing off hunters."

Well then.

Joan sits down on the bed, looking alert for a change. "And we're going to make sure they don't kill anymore, aren't we?"

Holmes smiles that same smile from before she turned into a monster - the same smile that tells her, yes, they'll go do something stupid and someone will probably pay for it in the morning.

"Great. Let's leave now."

Things are silent in the car and usually it's not an uncomfortable silence, but Joan can sense Holmes has something on his mind, something she doesn't want him to know.

"So, what's the plan?" she asks, distracting herself from her unpleasant thoughts - she has to admit, if Holmes did want to talk about feelings, she would rather jump out of the moving car.

Also, she can hear his blood moving in his veins. It is most distracting in an unpleasant kind of way.

"The usual."

Yeah … he definitely has something on his mind, usually never being this quiet and vague.

"Yeah, okay," she says, pursing her lips as she looks out of the window. It's raining tonight and that's probably not helping the delicious smell coming from the drivers seat. It made her stomach clench up and burn. God, she can already feel the headache coming.

The silence stretches and her skin itches - well, her mind is making her believe her skin is itching because this silence is making her uncomfortable, okay. And yes, Holmes used to make her very uncomfortable, but she has gotten used to it over the years. Now it's like when they first met four years ago.

"Okay, you know what, I'm just going to get this out," Holmes speaks up, gripping the steering wheel in what seems like a determined grip. "Increased aggression, evasive behavior, not wanting to go out in the sunlight …. Watson, is there something you want to tell me? Because, I'm going to be honest here, it's scaring the shit out of me."

Joan looks at him, her eyes widen in surprise. Okay, she hadn't expected that from Holmes, especially before they went to behead themselves a herd of biters.

"Um." What does she say? Tell him the truth and risk him using that nifty knife of his and stabbing her in the neck countless times before her head detaches itself from her body? Yeah, that doesn't sound too pleasant. "Well-" she has no idea what to say, "you're so smart, Sherlock, I'm sure you have many theories." It isn't exactly answering his question and she knew she was being snippy, but it's for the best.

Holmes glances at her, his mouth slowly deflating into a frown.

"Don't look like that, okay. I trust you, Sherlock. You should trust me to. I'll tell you when I'm ready."

The herd is out of control when they get there.

Well, out of control is an understatement. These biters are more rabid than they usually are.

And, fuck, she doesn't even know where 'there' is.

"Sherlock, I'll draw them into the building. You work on the bombs and placing them. Yeah?"

Joan doesn't even wait for his answer before she has her crossbow out and yelling some very unpleasant words in their direction. That seems to get their attention and they start sprinting to her - shit, like deer.

She runs in the opposite direction when that happens, finding herself inside the building and making her way down a wall.

How she hates buildings, especially dark ones. Of course she can't think of that right now since there are frothing biters running after her.

The herd is surprisingly fast, more like some kind of animal rather than the undead.

"C'mon you shitheads!" she yells behind her, only sparing a glance to make sure they were actually following her - Holmes being a late night snack is exactly the opposite of what she wants to happen. "Yeah, keep on running, I can do this all night!" It's easy keeping them so intent on her; it sounds like she's speaking in a megaphone in here.

Eventually she does slip them, but only when she thinks there's been enough time for Holmes to set the bombs around the place. So she stops to stop her hands from shaking and goes for her walkie talkie. "Holmes, you read me?"

For a second, she actually begins to think the worst, but there's a crackle and soon she can hear his voice coming from the device.

"I'm finished here, so if you would like to come out now, that would be great." She smiles despite what happened between them in the car. "Oh, and nice work on attracting the meatheads. You're very convincing bait." There's that smile of his again, even though she can't see it.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm flattered. Now I'd really like to get out of here so I don't get turned into toast," she said, sounding quite amused. "Oh, and make sure I'm actually out of the building before pressing that little red button of yours, yeah?"

There's a clatter of bangs coming down the hall, heading in her direction, so she doesn't exactly listen to what he's saying next. No, she's too busy running down the hall, away from the herd which is still chasing after her.

"Hey, got a situation over here-" and isn't that so funny, a biter being chased by a herd of biters so they can make themselves a new skin suit, "- and I don't know where the exits are, so if you'd like to tell me, that would be just peachy."

It's not like she's afraid, okay. Maybe a little, but she'll never admit that. It's a relief when Holmes' voice patches through and directs to what is supposed to be an exit.

…. It's a dead end. A fucking dead end.

"Um, pal, I'm beginning to question your judgement here. This is a dead end, not an exit."

And then, before anything else could be said, the herd was right there.

"Fuck."

There's no other way but to run towards them - and isn't that just her life, running towards danger instead of away from it. Yeah, it does seem like a terrible idea and yeah, she could possibly die, but she would rather die the same old hunter she's always been, not a biter who's too cowardly to put up a fight.

So yes, she does run towards them and yes, they do fight her and try to tear her skin off, but she does make it out on the other end, though she feels as if she's been through a meat grinder, and she can feel blood everywhere.

"Okay, buddy boy, another exit would be wonderful."

Why can't things be easy for once in her life?

Nope.

When she finally makes it out of the building, Holmes hits the little red button and the whole building goes up in flames, emitting a rather unpleasant rotting flesh smell which makes Joan wrinkle her nose and try not to gag.

"Watson! I thought you were a gon-"

And right as she turned around, something grabbed her from behind and ripped into her shoulder, causing her to let out a loud scream before turning around and attacking the biter who happened to latch onto her like he is starving for water.

There's organs and blood spraying everywhere before she realizes that, okay, perhaps not devouring a biter isn't the ideal image to present Holmes, but she can't stop. There's blood and it tastes to good. It makes her stomach pains disappear and her headache to vanish.

…. And that's when she decides enough is enough and turns around just to find one Sherlock Holmes staring at her.

"Okay, this looks worse than it really is," she tries, looking down at her hands to find them covered in the red liquid. It would make her sick, but she only begins to lick one finger at a time, humming in agreement when it touches her tongue.

"I knew it," she hears him say, noticing how close her friend has come to stand to her now.

Joan doesn't know what else to say, so she just drops her hands and looks at the ground. "Um, I probably should have told you this earlier, but … you know how I told you I spent the week at my parents? Yeah, well, that was a lie. I really woke up that night in some hospital in a very white room with no clothes." She looks up to see his hesitant smile.

"No clothes, huh? So you went nake-"

"It's not funny, okay?" she snapped, crossing her wet arms in front of her. Okay, so maybe that was a little uncomfortable, but she doesn't correct it. "I shouldn't have put you through this. I-I'm sorry."

She feels arms wrap around her and suddenly her forehead is on his chest.

"My dear Watson."


End file.
